Not What It Seems
by Etruscan Empire and GothFrance
Summary: France has a secret that none of the other Nations know about... until now. Oneshot. Rated K-plus for possible language.


**Note: I don't own Hetalia. If I did... this would definitely be canon.**

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"Alright, so I was playing this really freaky video game the other day and it hit me that we should start preparing for the zombie apocalypse or something like that and you dudes should totally listen to my plan of action! OK, Russia and Switzy are my backup-"

"Hang on, who said I'd help you?"

"Da, I would rather defend myself and the Baltic Nations."

"Fine then! Iggy, you-"

"Bloody hell, I already told you yesterday that I don't believe in your stupid 'zombie apocalypse', America!"

France groaned and put his head in his hands. America was being an idiot for the third week in a row, going on and on about some weird dream he'd had. And on top of that, his back ached. Not from age, no; though France was one of the oldest countries in Europe, he'd never had problems like that. No, it was a reason that none of the other Nations could ever know about.

"Dude, you guys are gonna be sorry when you're overrun by zombies and the hero has to come save you!"

"You come anywhere near me and I'll beat you with my peace prize!"

France sighed quietly. England glanced over and passed him a note. _What's with you, Frogface?_

The Country of Love smirked wanly and wrote back, _Nothing a little stretch and some wine couldn't fix, Angleterre~_

The note came back almost instantly. _Don't you dare go around molesting the maids again; last time you were here, three of them quit the same day._

France fought the urge to chuckle. _Guess I'm just too much for these British women to handle~_

The Brit shot him a glare and France smiled innocently. America had finished his inane little speech and Germany had concluded the meeting (although it was being held in England's house). France stood up and stretched luxuriously, which did nothing to alleviate the dull ache in his shoulder blades. There was no help for it, he would just have to find a deserted room for himself.

Mingling with the mob of Nations heading back to their respective hotels, the blond Frenchman crept along an empty corridor (for God's sake, why couldn't England just call it a hallway?) until he found what looked to be a study. It was so far off from the rest of the house that it fit the blond Nation's plans perfectly.

France carefully shut the door, not bothering to lock it. He leaned against the nice oak desk as another twinge of pain shot through his shoulders, causing him to wince.

"Alright, I know," France muttered to himself. He quickly removed his blue coat and the Renaissance-esque dress shirt beneath it, until all he was left wearing was his red pantaloons and a pair of huge, bat-like wings.

France let out a contented sigh as he stretched his wings to their full 40-foot span. The jet-black scales of their frame contrasted with the pale lilac of the membrane that allowed him flight, dark purple veins crisscrossing through the veil of skin. The wings connected at an odd angle with his back; just between his shoulder blades, tapping in straight to his spinal cord. The membrane blended into the skin of his back, stopping just below the end of his ribcage.

France smiled, a dainty set of fangs replacing his canines; two above, two below. It was such a good thing that England had a room this large in his house. He'd hate to break the other Nation's windows.

A strangled gasp sent the Frenchman whirling, his wings folding up to make him seem less menacing - though they still added at least three feet to his already-daunting 5-foot-9 height.

It was England.

The Brit's eyes darted from France's wings, to his coat and shirt that had been tossed the floor, and back to France. He took a step back.

"Angleterre," France said soothingly, not wanting to startle the Nation even more. "Just calm down, this is not what you think it is."

England blinked, partially in shock. "I-it's not?"

"Non, you're having a dream," the Frenchman told him, smiling encouragingly - and not realizing that his dragon-teeth still showed.

England opened his mouth to scream, but France was faster, covering the smaller Nation's mouth before he could get out more than a squeak.

"Angleterre, you can't tell _anyone_ about what you just saw," the Frenchman pleaded, his crystal-blue eyes meeting with England's emerald ones. "Do you understand?"

The Brit nodded, staring wide-eyed in horror at the delicate, black claws that had replaced France's manicured nails, the Frenchman's hand still covering his mouth.

France seemed to realize this, and let the Brit go. England steadied himself against the desk, still gaping at France's wings. "How-"

"It's a 40-foot wingspan," France said, guessing his question. "Twenty feet on either side."

The island Nation nodded. "O-oh."

The Frenchman flashed him a bitter smile. "I suppose you're wondering how I came to be like this?"

England nodded again. "You never had-" he swallowed, steadying his nerves, "-_wings_ when we were children, so where did they come from?"

France shrugged. "I'm not even sure. One morning I'm a regular Nation, the next I have wings, claws, fangs, and-" he stopped.

"And?" England prompted, curious. Really, what _else_ could have been bestowed on the Frenchman that was so bad that he couldn't even say it aloud?

France sighed. "And a tail, Angleterre. I have a tail as well."

England's mind reeled. "So what you're saying is… You're a dragon?"

"Oui, to some extent," France agreed. "I think Japan has a better term for it - an 'anthro', a mix of human and animal. I believe it's a popular theme in his mangas."

The Brit nodded. "It is. Good lord, he'd have a field day with you, Frogface."

"Which is exactly why you can't tell anyone about this," the Frenchman replied, tucking his wings in close to allow him to put his shirt back on.

"Hang on," England said, gesturing at the suddenly much smaller wings. "How did you do that?"

France shrugged. "Again, I'm not sure. I'm just able to, I suppose."

"Well this explains why you're always early to the meetings," England said, trying to lighten the mood.

France smiled and patted his shoulder, claws and fangs retracting like his wings. "You don't have to be afraid of me, Angleterre. I can't breathe fire or anything." He paused. "That I know of."

England smiled weakly. "You know, I could probably make you something so that your back won't hurt so much-"

"How did you know my back hurt?" France asked suspiciously as he pulled on his blue coat.

"Oh, er, um," the Brit chuckled nervously. "It just made sense, what with you having those huge wings pressed against your back all the time and everything."

France nodded. "Good point. I'd very much appreciate it if you could give me something for my back, Angleterre. My muscles get cramped from being in that position for so long."

"Of course," England said, leading France to the door. "I expect they would."

France looked back, smiling kindly, as he stepped onto the porch. "Thank you for promising not to tell anyone, Arthur. Merci beaucoup."

"It's no problem," England replied, returning the smile. "I'm sure you would do the same for me."

The Frenchman nodded. "Of course. Adieu, Angleterre!"

England waved back at him before closing the door, a wide grin stretching across his features. He reached back to feel the tips of his own feathery, white angel-wings. "Thank God I'm not the only one!"

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**That's right, England's not the only Nation with hidden features anymore. I originally got this idea from a drawing I did of a half-dragon, half-human prince during Regents testing (fellow New Yorkers; aren't you glad it's over? ). That drawing will probably never see the light of day again, but the idea stuck in my head, and somehow latched itself onto France. At the moment, I'm working on designing the rest of the Bad Touch Trio as Dragon-Anthros, then it's on to the Italians!**


End file.
